


Zen, or the Skill to Keep on Living

by moondaisie



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Eventual Relationships, Grief/Mourning, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Twin Peaks: The Return, it will be gay, so sayeth the english major
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26577256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moondaisie/pseuds/moondaisie
Summary: Harry Truman survived liver cancer on a fluke.  He returns to Twin Peaks for a few days to attend his brother Frank's funeral, and feels that he is forgetting something.  Or someone?  Yeah, someone...
Relationships: Andy Brennan & Bobby Briggs & Tommy "Hawk" Hill & Harry Truman, Dale Cooper & Harry Truman
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	1. The Return

It was a Tuesday morning in April, approximately fifteen minutes after the Twin Peaks Sheriff’s Department deputies concluded their morning meeting, when Frank Truman checked his phone and found that he had three missed calls from the same person. He immediately shut the door to his office and hit the redial button.

“Hello?” The voice possessed a rasp, maybe a slight shake, but was otherwise strong.

“Harry, is everything alright?” he asked, feeling his gut clench.

“Yeah, I just, uh.” There was a small pause, during which the man in question was probably scratching the back of his head. The wait for him to speak again was agonizing. “The doctor called with the test results. I guess I got impatient.”

Frank leaned forward at his desk with a furrowed brow. “And?”

“Free and clear.” 

There was a grin a mile wide in the way he spoke those words that had the sheriff slap the desk and yell, “Hot dog, Harry!” On the other end of the line, he could hear wet laughter.

“When’re you gonna get your ass back here? Twin Peaks needs its favorite sheriff.”

“I’m not sure. The doctors still want me to hang around for follow-up appointments. Don’t know how long I’m gonna be able to stay, either.”

“Any time’s better than no time, Harry. I’ll pick you up at the airport. Just give me a call.” He was about to hang up when a thought struck him, and he tacked on, “Do you want me to tell everyone?”

“If you don’t mind. Not-not everyone, though. I don’t want to make a big deal.”

“Sure thing. I’ll see you soon.” And with that, he pressed another button and set the phone down. A disbelieving chuckle escaped him and he shook his head.

Free. And. Clear. By God, was he dreaming?

He leaned forward again to pick up the landline. “Yeah, Lucy? Find Hawk and Andy and head on over to my office.”

*

Hawk had asked him at one point how Harry was looking. In truth, he didn’t know. He’d been to Seattle quite often during his brother’s first year of treatment, but once Harry had moved to Los Angeles they’d only been able to speak over the phone. So, because it was Hawk and there was no lying to him, Frank had repeated what the doctor told him: “Not good.” It admittedly set them on edge to think of what four and a half years of liver cancer could have done to the youngest Truman son.

It was at 11:52 a.m. on a drenched Monday in June that Hawk got his answer, although he was the only one. They were putting Frank to rest in two day’s time. It had been a heart attack. Quick and painless, but only for the victim.

Harry used a cane to slowly make his way to baggage claim. His hair was gray and sparse. Deep bruises hung underneath his eyes. He was visibly underweight, his favorite jacket practically drowning him. He was loaded down with an oxygen tank that wheeled alongside him. But there was life yet left in that face. A will to keep fighting, even if the odds were stacked against him. And they certainly had been. All in all, it still could have been worse.

They embraced one another tightly, lingering there for a long moment before Hawk stepped back to regard him at arm’s length. “I gotta warn you: Andy and Lucy are extremely excited to see you.”

Harry’s eyes tightened imploringly.

“I talked them down to dinner tomorrow night,” he assured him. “How was the flight?”

“Not bad. I have this nagging feeling that I’m forgetting something, though.”

“Got all your meds?”

“Yeah.”

“Toothbrush?”

“Yeah.”

“Underwear?”

“Check, check, and check.”

“You’re probably good, then.”

They piled themselves and Harry’s bags into the car shortly after, and Hawk lapsed into silence, although it was out of not wanting to disturb Harry’s quickly-gained sleep, as opposed to any sad sentiment. All the while, the rain came tumbling down. It was peaceful. Comforting. He very well could have fallen asleep himself if he hadn’t been driving. In the passenger’s seat, Harry mumbled something incoherent and leaned against the window.

Hawk took a deep breath and eased up on the gas pedal to match the changing speed limit. The rain was fortunately letting up the closer they got to Twin Peaks, but visibility was still low. With old age came the ability to drift off whenever he sat somewhere that was warm and monotonous, but usually a strong cup of coffee, like the one he currently sipped at, kept him running. He needed to remain vigilant when behind the wheel… hawk-eyed, even. He couldn’t help but let out a low chuckle at his own pun.

His smile was quick to fall when he noticed the firs begin to sway. At first he suspected high winds, yet nothing pulled at the steering wheel. Only when he flicked on the car’s hazards and pulled off to the side of the road did he realize that it was the ground itself that was moving. He forced himself to maintain a firm grip on the wheel and keep the fear from getting to him. Next to him, Harry stirred.

“What’s… Are we having an earthquake?” Now wide awake, he sat up and peered outside. “Holy cow. When was the last time we had one of those out here?”

“Can’t even remember,” he replied.

“Has to be at least--shit, look out!”

Hawk was slamming on the accelerator before Harry was even done speaking. The two men cringed as a massive tree’s branches scraped against the rear of the car. Once they were a safe distance away, the car jolted to a halt. Everything was once again still. With hammering hearts, they slowly turned around to regard the vast trunk barricading the two lane highway.

Not fifty yards ahead of them a sign upon which was painted two snow-capped mountains peeking out behind the forest bearing the words: WELCOME TO TWIN PEAKS.

“Helluva welcome,” Hawk muttered incredulously. He puffed out a sigh. “Well, guess I better call Lucy.”

“Is Harry there?”

Harry gave a quiet chuckle upon hearing her voice echo through the receiver.

“Yes, Lucy, he’s right here,” Hawk informed her.

“Oh, hi Harry!” she yelled, and the deputy chief leaned away from his phone. “Did you stop for gas?”

“No, I still have half a tank.”

“But--then how are you calling me?” Worry tinged her voice.

“Cellphones, Lucy. Remember?” Hawk returned to his usual calm, patient self. “Anyways, we just hit the welcome sign. There’s a downed tree blocking the road. Send a dispatch so the guys can start setting up.”

“Alright, Hawk. I’m hanging up now.” And with that, the call ended.

After time, Harry decided to fill the silence. “You’re still okay with the promotion? You can ask someone else if you don’t want to do it.”

“Wouldn’t have taken the job if I didn’t want it,” he assured him.

“You could always get one of them to be your secretary,” Harry suggested.

Hawk shook his head. “I don’t hate anyone that much.”

They passed the Double R Diner. Any mirth quickly fell from their faces.

“Rest of the Bookhouse Boys all want to see you, too. But, uh… best not to bring up Norma while Ed’s in earshot,” Hawk said.

Everyone else from their generation in Twin Peaks looked their age. Not Norma, though. She had hardly aged at all in the twenty-six years that had gone by. But a long-since-kicked smoking habit had come back to bite her. It had metastasized before the doctors could do much, apparently. Within a matter of months, Norma Hurley was gone. Her and Ed’s wedding had been several days after her grim prognosis was given. A quiet, quick event. Harry was still angry with himself for not being able to go to that or her funeral, although there wasn’t much he could have done about it.

Suddenly desiring to pick the mood back up, Hawk asked, “So, how’s the new liver treating you?”

“Well, it hasn’t filed for divorce yet, so I think we’re good.”

They pulled up to Harry’s--then Frank and Doris’s, now just Doris’s--house. Harry stared up at it and felt a reluctance to get out of the car tugging at his chest. The early flight time, getting through the airport, and the plane ride had all left him exhausted. But inside was all of his brother’s things. And--

“ _ Harry! _ ”

And Doris. “Hey, D,” he said gently, moving to hug her.

She accepted the embrace, pressing into him with a whimper. When she stepped back, there were tears in her eyes, and his heart broke for her. “What  _ took you _ so long?” she wondered.

Cancer had made Harry’s patience for Doris, just like his hair, grow very thin. So he took a deep breath before opening his mouth again. “I know, D. If I could’ve sped up the plane, I would’ve. Did you feel the earthquake?”

“Yes! Oh, God, it was just awful. Just awful. I couldn’t believe it. An  _ earthquake _ ?  _ Here _ , in Twin Peaks? That’s a California thing. You should know, you’ve been living there. God, I hope you didn’t accidentally bring the earthquakes with you, I just couldn’t stand it--”

“I didn’t,” he reassured her, a bit more curtness than he would have liked slipping into his tone. “We’re right near the two converging plates. It’s just something that’s gonna happen sometimes.”

“Well I don’t  _ like _ it!” she retorted frantically.

Hawk stepped forward to put a hand on her shoulder and lead her in the direction of the kitchen. “It sounds like you’ve had a long day, Doris. How about I make you some tea to help you relax?”

Harry obeyed his signal to stay put, running a hand over the top of his head. “Man, oh man,” he breathed.

When Hawk reappeared a few minutes later, he quietly eased the front door open and said, “Hope you don’t mind a last-minute change in accommodations.”

*

Deputy Hill’s home was just large enough to not feel cramped. It had two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. There was a garden with a neat little water feature for the animals. He and Hawk had spent many a day and night here, enjoying the kind of company that can only come from a life-long best friend. The wood-paneled walls and cottage-style floor plan gave the place a cozy, safe vibe. ‘Vibe.’ He was starting to think like a Los Angeles millennial.

He eased himself onto the couch at Hawk’s behest while the other man went to put his suitcase and some fresh sheets in the spare bedroom. Nothing had changed about the place since he’d left. Save for the addition of a very familiar log on the opposite side of the couch. He sighed.  _ It comes in threes _ .

*

Hawk could hear quiet snoring when he came back into the living room. “Well, that didn’t take long,” he muttered.

He moved the log to a chair at the kitchen table, giving it a gentle pat. It didn’t speak to him at all. Was it because he didn’t know the right way to listen? Margaret had never mentioned that there was one. Perhaps that was something he would have to figure out for himself, or perhaps it simply wasn’t an ability he was gifted with. He could listen to what the earth had to say to him--through the animal tracks, scratches on the trees, the patterns in which the plants grew--and it had served him very well. But the log spoke of things that didn’t belong to the earth he knew.

He was able to move Harry so that he was laying down, then removed his shoes and checked his oxygen tank. It was still over half full, but they would have to stop by the pharmacy for another one at some point during his stay. For now, though, he could sleep off the exhaustion of air travel and regain what strength he had left. He would need it for that night.

*

Wally answered the front door. “Deputy Hawk,” he said, inclining his hair in respect.

Hawk nodded back. “Evening, Wally.”

There was a pause as the young man’s eyes trailed from him to Harry.  _ It begins _ , he thought to himself.

“Sheriff Truman… Mr. Truman. My godfather. It gives me great pleasure… to hear that you have returned to health once more. My dear mother is in the kitchen, preparing dinner.” He turned away and made a sweeping gesture with his arm to indicate roughly where she was. When he turned back to them, he continued: “The rest of the guests… have arrived. They await us… in the dining room… where we shall gather, to celebrate this momentous occasion… as well as the life… of your dear brother… Frank Truman.”

He finally stepped out of the way and invited them inside. Harry bit his cheek to contain a chuckle. To him, Wally Brennan was just as endearing as he was exasperating. He was one of the few who felt that way. Even some of his teachers had been known to grow frustrated enough to yell at him to hurry up.

Gathered at the dining room table, just like Wally said, were Andy, Big Ed, James, and Bobby, all of which immediately rose to greet him. A round of exuberant “welcome home” comments went up as Harry shook everyone’s hand and took a seat next to Hawk at the spacious round table.

Lucy’s voice floated in from the adjacent kitchen. “Wally, can you help me bring out the food?”

“Of course, Mother. I would be happy to.”

When Lucy emerged behind her son with a Pyrex dish full of green bean casserole, her face instantly lit up. In her delight, she also almost dropped the food. “Oh, Harry, it’s so good to see you again! We really, really missed you.”

An easy smile found its way onto its face. “I missed you, too, Lucy. I’m glad we could all get together.”

“Although, Harry, I was very cross with you at first, you know, when you didn’t tell us that you were sick. And then you just up and left for Seattle and I didn’t know what to think!” She slipped off her oven mitts and set them back in the kitchen before taking her place between Wally and Andy at the table.

His expression sombered. He nodded several times, slowly, chagrined. “Yeah… I’m sorry about that. At the time I just didn’t want to cause anyone too much trouble.” He took a deep breath, then gestured to the spread. “The food looks amazing. Thank you for putting all this together.”

“Oh, I was happy to,” she crooned, blushing, as people began to dish up their portions. “When I was on my lunch break the other day Wally came into the sheriff’s station and helped me look up recipes for stuff that’s supposed to be good for the liver. The Internet can get so confusing sometimes, I’m so happy he’s here to help me.”

“The World Wide Web…” the Brennan son remarked wistfully. “It is… an apt name. Before we know it… we can become trapped, and devoured… by the spider which it has to thank for its creation.”

Harry was once again forced to suppress laughter as he replied, “Well said.” Next to him, Hawk gave an absolutely bewildered sigh.

“So Harry, how’s Los Angeles?” Andy asked. “Are the beaches as pretty as the magazine Lucy and I like to read say they are?”

“Even prettier.” At least, they were during the grand total of three times he had been to a Los Angeles beach.

“And the people?” Bobby added.

“Even weirder.”

“What did you like to do down there?” Lucy prompted.

It was more along the lines of how often he got to do the things he liked, rather than what exactly he liked doing. Cancer had eaten up his body and all his time. Which reminded him: he needed to take his pills. He unzipped the little compartment in his oxygen tank and pulled out a baggie containing his evening round of medication to prevent his body from rejecting the loaner liver and subsequently dying. He popped them into his mouth as discreetly as possible and downed a glass of water.

Everyone was still waiting for a reply. He decided on something easy: “Well, I still like to birdwatch.”

“I bet there’s all sorts of new birds in Los Angeles,” Andy said.

“There is, actually. It was fun.”

His phone began to buzz in his pocket. Sighing at the interruption, he leaned over to fish it out and check the caller ID. Then he stood, slowly. “Sorry, I’ll just be a second.”

Stepping into the kitchen, he swiped to accept and said, “Harry, here.”

“ _ Hi Mr. Truman! _ ” came the youthful, cheery voice on the other end of the receiver. “ _ I just wanted to call and make sure you made it up to Twin Peaks okay _ .”

“I did, thank you, Kit. Sorry I forgot to call you earlier.”

“ _ Oh, that’s alright Mr. Truman. Well, I’ll leave you be. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything, alright? _ ”

“Will do. Thanks again.”

“ _ Take care, Mr. Truman. _ ”

He made his way back to his seat.

“Who was that, Harry?” Lucy implored.

A question he wished he could have avoided. “Oh, uh, that was this girl, Cassidy. She works at the uh… the place I’m at.”

The easy, happy mood of the dinner party shifted to something more somber. Oh, that’s right. Sheriff Harry Truman had been in a convalescent home for the moment he arrived in Los Angeles for more experimental treatments and advanced operations, too riddled with cancer pain and chemotherapy to function independently. Reduced to nothing, to a husk with little chance of surviving had it not been for a fluke, which made it all the more miraculous that he was sitting at the Brennan’s table that night in Twin Peaks, alive, with some stubborn grey hairs still clinging to his head.

*

When they returned to Hawk’s roost, it was around eleven o’clock at night. Four hours of consistent socializing without falling asleep was probably a new record for him. He said goodnight to Hawk before heading into the guest room to change into his pajamas and get ready for bed. He noticed--though he pretended not to--how his friend gave Margaret’s log a pat and said goodnight to her as well. He wondered if it was because that was how he had chosen to grieve for the Log Lady or because he had reason to believe that her spirit was now in the log.

Personally, he didn’t fancy being haunted by Margaret Lanterman. She always seemed to be judging him and he could never figure out what for. His alcoholism had been his most closely-guarded secret, and he had tried to do his best to be an upstanding citizen of the community he served.

With brushed teeth, a set alarm clock, and a glass of water and his morning meds ready to go on the nightstand, he switched off the light and crawled into bed. He had dearly missed how quiet and dark it was at night here. In the city there were sirens at all hours and every possible street light shining through his window. There were hardly any stars visible in the night sky.

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and deciding whether or not he felt like counting sheep. Kit from the home had introduced him to this thing called “ASMR,” whatever the hell that stood for. She’d told him of course, and bless her for trying, but he never would’ve remembered it if she’d told him a hundred times. But the Bob Ross and specialty coffee-making videos did help him fall asleep.

He rolled onto his side and fished a key out of his suitcase. Strange, how he had remembered to bring this, but not whatever it was that he was still forgetting. He had checked and rechecked his medicine supply to ensure that he’d brought the right dosage and the right number of pills to last him for a few extra days after he was due back in Los Angeles in case there were any delays. His prescription for fresh oxygen tanks had reached the Twin Peaks pharmacy without any issue and he could pick them up anytime. Maybe he hadn’t forgotten to pack something. Maybe it was something else. Had he missed a doctor’s appointment.

He let out a long sigh. This was his life now. Pills and oxygen tanks and doctor’s appointments and funerals.

The silver key glinted in the moonlight. It was an old one, but not old enough to have rusted, and used to open one of the rooms in the Great Northern Hotel. Frank had mailed it to him a few months ago but couldn’t remember why. He’d kept meaning to either toss it or mail it to Ben Horne. Neither happened. Each time he would stare at it and something would tickle the back of his brain and he’d just keep staring at it, then put it back with his personal effects. It made him feel safe, as odd as it sounded. He ran his thumb across the green tag attached to the key and felt his eyelids grow heavy.

A rustle of feathers just outside the window encouraged him back to full alertness. A Great-horned Owl was perched on a branch, gazing at him. Some feeling akin to fear settled in his stomach watching its piercing orange eyes bore into him. He took a deep breath and burrowed deeper under the covers, holding the key close to his chest. Its low, booming hoots echoed through the woods around them.

In the distance, its mate could be heard responding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick update 9/29/20: changed frank truman's official cause of death from heart attack to cerebral hemorrhage for plot purposes.


	2. The Goodbye and the Hello

The morning fog had blown off by the time the church service concluded and they arrived at the Twin Peaks cemetery. Harry exited Hawk’s car in his suit and tie and oxygen tank and gazed upon the land that contained his grandparents, his mother, and his father, and would now hold his older brother. The last of his blood family.

Doris emerged from the passenger’s seat of the hearse. She quaked terribly, ready to shatter at any moment. First her only child, now her husband, both gone without warning. Harry’s heart was once again breaking for her.

Fresh tears streamed down her face when she noticed him approach. “Frankie’s gone,” she said simply. “He’s gone to see our boy.”

He nodded, pulling her into a hug. “They’re being taken good care of,” he assured her.

Members of the Green Berets exited a sleek military vehicle parked nearby, decked out in their ceremonial attire. Frank would receive full honors for his service with them during the Vietnam War.

Those gathered cleared a path for Frank to be brought through. Two Berets served as pallbearers, along with Hawk, Big Ed--who had to stoop--and two deputies who had worked for him during his time as sheriff in a town near Spokane. The moment the casket was placed in the proper position over the open grave, the priest called everyone together and began to speak, Bible open to the correct passages for the occasion. Harry kept a hand on Doris’s shoulder as she wept into her own hand. Harry himself was never much of a crier--unless he was drunk--but he felt his throat righten agonizingly as the coffin was so slowly, so gently, lowered into the freshly-dug earth, as a mother would place her child into its crib. The scent of cool, damp earth suddenly became revolting. He wanted to run as much as he wanted to scream, but he remained silent and still, for the sake of his big brother and his sister-in-law.

There were many things he could think or say while dirt was being scooped and tossed into the hole that could console himself. Frank Truman had lived a good, long-ish life. He had accomplished much. He had lots of friends and family who loved him enough to come to his funeral. None of these things soothed the bitter ache in his chest.

With a wail, Doris fell to her knees. Lucy and Doris’s sister were quick to guide her back up and away from the grave with comforting words, holding her arms tight so she wouldn’t fall again.

“Harry?”

He turned his head slightly to look at Andy out of the corner of his eye.

“Doris’s family is gonna take her back to her sister’s house for a while,” he explained.

He nodded. “Alright.”

Hawk came up on his other side and clasped his shoulder. “I gotta check in with the guys at the station… I’ll be back at the house in about an hour.”

He nodded again. “Alright.”

“Would you like Lucy and I to give you a ride?” Andy asked.

He nodded again. “Alright.”

Lucy insisted he sit in the passenger’s seat. More room for his legs. “Are you doing okay, Harry?” she asked from behind him.

“Yeah, I’m doing okay.”

“Hawk had to go take care of some things down at the station, but he told me to tell you he’ll meet you back at his house.”

“I know. Thanks, Lucy.”

He was thankful--he needed to be alone for a while. The thought chagrined him. Hawk was being an absolute saint by not forcing him to stay with Doris and he wanted to be alone.

They stopped by the Double R Diner on the way back for some food and coffee to go. Harry sipped at it and made a mental note to take something to keep himself from getting acid reflux.

Shelly and Heidi were there but not Norma. It was the first time since he was sixteen he hadn’t seen her there. To say it felt strange… He hadn’t been able to make her service and he was still kicking himself for it. It felt strange not to see her and he felt ashamed that he couldn’t have been at the funeral of his friend since high school. He began to feel a creeping sense of nausea.

At least he could warm his hands on the paper cup.

The Brennans dropped him off at Hawk’s house. He unlocked the front door with the key he’d been given and waved as they drove off down the gravel and onto the main road, then let his shoulders slump and walked in the door. He needed some sleep and wanted someone to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him it was going to be alright just like Frank used to when they were boys.

 _Come on, be a man, Truman_ , he chided himself. If he really needed help, his therapist had said he could call. He wouldn’t make people babysit him.

He sat quietly at the table, gazing out the kitchen window. A black-capped chickadee hopped around the rim of the water feature outside. He’d missed chickadees. You had to get to high elevation in Los Angeles to see any, and they weren’t the same kind as the ones up in Twin Peaks. The cold weather avifauna were like friends to him, even if the cold weather wasn’t.

When the bird flew away he rose and made his way to the kitchen. Apparently he was hungry and not queasy. He would probably need a ride to the store--the town had grown but the public transportation was still garbage, and those rideshare apps got pricey fast. Maybe he could talk Wally into taking him in exchange for lunch and a coffee. Just eating the groceries in the house without replacing them was a rudeness he would not tolerate from others or himself. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich sounded just perfect right about now.

In opening one of the higher cabinets, his stomach dropped to the floor. This was where the liquor was kept. He could smell it. Saliva flooded his mouth. His gnarled hand reached out…

The front door swung open. “Hello? Harry?”

He slammed the cabinet shut as his stomach revolted, barely making it to the kitchen sink to be sick. There were hands on his upper arms keeping him from falling to the wooden floor when he could at least breathe again.

Hawk helped him pour a glass of water to rinse his mouth out with, then led him to the back porch. “Take it easy, get some fresh air for a few minutes, I’ll be right back,” he said, tone firm but kind.

Harry sank into one of the rocking chairs feeling drained. The hand he now ran down his face was clammy and shaking. God, it felt like he’d spent the past five years doing not much else but throwing up, but he never got used to the sensation.

When Hawk emerged from the house, his stomach was starting to consider settling down.

“Need to call your sponsor?”

“Frank was my sponsor,” he replied simply.

“Want me to take over?”

He shook his head. “That’s alright. I don’t want to trouble you.”

“You said something similar when you left without a word to go for experimental late-stage liver cancer treatment,” Hawk remarked. _I am_ not _putting up with your shit, Truman_ , his face said. “I’m taking over as your sponsor.”

“...Thank you, Hawk. I mean it.”

“So do I.”

The shaking was starting to subside. “It was only stage three, though.”

“Only stage three,” Hawk echoed dryly.

He breathed a laugh at how ridiculous and petty he sounded pointing that out. “Yeah…”

A comfortable silence floated in and settled down between them. The birds continued to chirp, there was a woodpecker drilling into a nearby douglas fir, and a wind was rustling the forest canopy. Two chipmunks were chittering and chasing one another around a tree, their little claws making scratching noises in the wood. It was comical to watch them in their own little world, without a care besides whatever it was they were having a spat over.

A great horned owl was perched in the tree to the left of them. It stared at Harry and a shiver went up his spine. He sucked in a breath. The bird did not break eye contact, did not blink, just stared at him and did not move. Its beak was open and it panted, pointy tongue shifting up and down with each breath. Orange eyes, wide as saucers, peering into his very soul.

“Owl looks like it wants to make a meal outta us instead of those chipmunks,” he noted, trying to keep his voice as casual as possible.

“No kidding.” Hawk’s brows furrowed as he stared up at the creature.

Harry didn’t like how genuine the concern was on his friend’s face. Hawk knew all about the supernatural that permeated the woods around Twin Peaks--knowledge that was part of the legacy of his people--so when he got worried, Harry got worried. They had seen too much weird shit during their lives here to not believe.

He reached for the key in his pocket and pulled it out, running his thumb over the green room tag as usual. “You know, I have no idea why I have this,” he said. “But whenever I look at it I feel like I’m on the brink of remembering something I forgot.”

The owl let loose a series of hoots before Hawk could respond. The two looked up again at it for a moment, then he said, “How about we head inside?”

Hawk’s phone lit up and rang just as they entered the kitchen through the back door. “Bobby, what do you need?” he asked upon picking it up.

Harry watched his face turn grim as the deputy spoke on the other end of the line.

“I see… Alright, I’ll be over there soon.” He hung up, turned to him, and said, “There’s been a murder, Harry. I gotta get down to the station.”

“Mind if I tag along?” he asked, and immediately regretted it. What kind of person wanted to talk about a murder investigation on the same day of their own brother’s funeral.

But Hawk understood: he wanted something to do. Dusting off the old investigative skills was better than sitting around the house all day being miserable. He nodded, an empathetic gleam in his eye. “No problem. Let’s go.”

*

He brought his cane with him, just in case he needed something to lean on. That particular piece of equipment wasn’t something he ever felt ashamed about--he was an old fart, he was getting arthritic, it was expected--but his oxygen tank was. It was a symbol of how degraded his body had become. There hadn’t been a ‘battle’ with cancer. There had been a wearing away of his body, mind, and soul. The oxygen tank was tangible proof of his suffering.

The layout of the Twin Peaks Sheriff's Department hadn’t changed at all in the years since he’d left. The staff had, however, with the recent firing of Chad, who he had regretted hiring in the first place almost immediately after he’d brought him onto the force. At first Harry had thought that he was just an asshole. To think that he’d been involved in cocaine deals…

Bobby grinned and clapped him on the shoulder in greeting. Then he said, very simply, “I have absolutely no idea what to make of this footage.”

“You said it’s from outside the grocery store?” Hawk prompted.

“Yeah, and in broad daylight, too,” he replied, absolutely flabbergasted. “No idea how no one else saw it.”

He pressed play on the remote, and the CCTV footage from the grocery store dumpster began playing. A young man was hefting a large bag of trash into the bin. From the bottom right corner of the screen a dark figure approached. He was tall, lean, and covered with soot. The two stood there for a moment, the young man talking to him. The figure lurched towards him and put a hand on his head. The young man began to flail, attempting to remove the hand from his head. The figure was like a statue; nothing caused him to move even an inch.

They all flinched as the young man’s brain exploded.

“What the hell?” Hawk breathed.

“Yeah,” Bobby agreed.

The intercom came on, startling the group once again. “Sheriff Hill, there’s a man here to see you,” Lucy said.

Hawk cleared his throat and shook his head a little to clear it, then pressed the intercom button. “Who is it, Lucy?”

“He says his name is Richard. He didn’t give a last name,” she replied. “He said it’s urgent. There’s a woman with him, but she hasn’t said what her name is yet.” There was a pause. “She said her name is Laura.”

“Horne?” Harry wondered.

He shrugged. “Kid’s been missing for months. Something tells me he wouldn’t come here if he’s still alive, though.”

Harry, Hawk, and Bobby made their way from the conference room to the station’s lobby. There was a strange tingling sensation in the back of his neck. He reached into his coat pocket for the key again, letting its presence calm him. His head began to hurt as if he’d been thinking too long and too hard about the same thing. He moved his free hand through his hair.

Standing in the lobby was a middle-aged man and a middle-aged woman. The man was dressed in a sharp black suit, the woman in much more casual clothes. The man had dark hair and glittering eyes that turned to look at the approaching men who stopped dead in their tracks behind the sheriff.

Hawk was nodding slowly. “Good to see you again,” he said softly.

The man wasn’t paying attention to him, though. He was staring directly at Harry, a grin spreading until it engulfed his whole face.

“Harry,” he gasped, eyes wide and glittering and excited.

Confusion permeated the air as the man continued to stare and grin and say his name again, even more awe-struck than the first time. Then his eyes began to roll into his head and his body tipped back and he collapsed, unconscious, on the floor.

The woman knelt by him and began patting his face, saying, “Richard. Richard? Richard, what the hell are you doing?”

They crowded around his body. 

Hawk harrumphed. “Guess you don’t just make the ladies swoon, Har.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm having a blast writing this and it's ending up being some nice stress relief since i'm pretty stressed about having just moved and having soooooo much going on with uni. hope you're enjoying it so far!


	3. The Barely Passable Attempt at an Explanation

“Hey, hey!” The woman who was called Laura knelt at the unconscious man’s head and began patting his cheek, trying to revive him. “What the hell are you doing? Richard? Richard!”

“Sheriff Hill, sh-should I call an ambulance?” Lucy asked.

Hawk, Bobby, Andy, and several other officers who had heard the body fall to the floor walked forward slowly. Harry kept his feet planted firmly where they were while they all crowded around the man and Laura.

Hawk did not speak for a long moment, hitching up the legs of his pants to kneel and feel for a pulse. Nodding satisfactorily to himself, he turned his head just enough to regard the station’s secretary out of the corner of his eye. “No, that’s alright, Lucy.”

He moved his hand to the man’s shoulder and gave it a shake. “Cooper?”

Bobby quietly asked one of the officers to run and grab the smelling salts out of the first aid kit.

The man who had called himself Richard and who Hawk had instead called Cooper lurched upright with a gasp, startling those gathered. He looked just as mystified as before, staring straight ahead and panting. He blinked a few times, and his eyes focused on what was in front of him, namely Harry Truman’s knees. His eyes traveled upwards at a snail’s pace until he was at last looking at his face again.

That same smile he’d had before he passed out returned to his face, and he murmured, “Harry… S… Truman.”

His brows furrowed and he tilted his head slightly. “How,” he said hesitantly, then stopped to whet his lips. “How do you know my name?”

The smile instantly fell from his face. As his gaze dropped to his legs, splayed out in front of him, he actually looked  _ hurt _ . Harry swallowed hard, unsure of what to do or say to this man who obviously felt a connection to him that for the life of him he could not reciprocate. For the life of him… he couldn’t remember ever seeing this man in his life, despite a vague itching ache in the back of his mind.

The woman who was called Laura rocked back on her heels and sighed as she ran a hand through her hair. “Richard, please tell me what’s going on,” she grumbled.

“Think we’d all like to know that,” Hawk noted.

“I don’t think I’m Richard anymore,” the man said. “I… no. I’m Dale Bartholemew Cooper, FBI.” He was smiling again, giving a few tiny nods. “Yes.”

The sensation in the back of Harry’s mind grew from vague to prominent. From the looks of the other officers--at least, the ones who had been there a long time--they were experiencing something similar. He rubbed his eyes and the pressure points just above them to try to get it to go away, to no avail.

‘Dale Bartholemew Cooper, FBI’ turned to Hawk. “Does Sarah Palmer live in this town?”

“Yeah, she does,” he replied hesitantly. “Again, can you tell us what’s going on?”

“Hawk, you clearly remember some things. I will fill everyone in on the events which have occurred, that I promise, but first… I am  _ starving _ .” He got a hopeful little expression on his face, mouth quirked up just so in one corner. “Is the Double R still open?”

He nodded.

“Perfect! I’ll drive.”

*

Hawk drove.

Shelly Johnson was stationed at her usual spot behind the counter. Upon seeing him, she gasped, face lighting up. “Welcome back, Harry! Whatever you want’s on the house today,” she told him.

“I appreciate it. Just some green tea, if you don’t mind,” he replied, settling down at a bar stool.

“Oh, come on, no pie?” she prodded. “We have huckleberry today.”

He considered it for a moment. His doctors would collectively smack him upside the head for not watching his sugar intake if they saw him eating an entire slice of huckleberry pie, but the opportunity was difficult to pass up. He’d beaten stage three liver cancer and survived the first six months of liver transplant without any signs of organ rejection, dammit, he could have one slice of pie. “Well, I guess you can twist my arm.”

She beamed at him. “Comin’ right up. Glad to have you back.”

Dale approached the counter. “Do you have any cherry pie?” he asked.

“We sure do. I’ll bring one over in just a sec.”

Hawk arched an eyebrow at him as they grabbed their respective food and drinks and made their way over to Dale and Laura’s booth. “Green tea?”

Harry shrugged. “Apparently it’s good for you. Tastes pretty good, too.”

He shook his head slowly. “LA changed you.”

“Ah, it’s not all bad. The people at the home are real nice. Lots of volunteers there, too. One gal--her name’s Cassidy--comes by and plays chess with me, gives me a lift to doctors’ appointments,” he added.

“She a cutie?” Hawk asked, elbowing him gently. Ever so gently, as if he were worried about the slightest touch damaging his friend. It frustrated Harry.

“She’s also twenty-four. Besides, my dating days are long gone.” He rubbed at his chin absently. “She talked me into seeing a therapist couple months after I got down there.”

Hawk nodded, sending a quick thank-you to his makers. “Does it help at all?”

“You know, surprisingly, it does. Apparently not all shrinks are like Dr. Jacoby.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

They clinked their glasses together. Harry sipped the tea, then took his first bite of the pie.

“Just as incredible as I remember it being,” Dale said, pulling the words right out of Harry’s mouth. “Thank you, Shelly.”

She looked a tad perplexed at this stranger addressing her by her first name while topping off his coffee, but didn’t say anything. She made her way to a booth in the corner, where Bobby had taken up residence next to their daughter. She was looking at a photograph and crying. Shelly sat on her other side and pulled her into a tight hug, saying something comforting that was drowned out in the general din of the diner.

Harry forced himself to stop after half the slice was gone. He could always take the rest home and warm it up tomorrow. The temptation to just go ahead and finish it was very strong. He moved his tea mug in front of the little plate to obscure the sight of it even though that would do nothing to curb his desire.

“When we return to the sheriff’s station I’ll need to use your phone to contact my supervisor with the FBI,” Dale informed them. “Hopefully he will remember what happened. If not…” He blinked and shook his head. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“We’d like to understand, too,” Hawk reminded him.

“Yes, of course. My apologies.” He paused for a moment while figuring out where to begin. Eventually, he settled on: “Do the Bookhouse Boys still exist?”

Harry and Hawk exchanged wary looks, but gave an affirmative response.

“Excellent. In February of 1989, you once described to me an evil that lurked in the woods surrounding Twin Peaks which your organization was sworn to protect against. In the spring of that same year, I found that evil, and I faced it with imperfect courage.”

Those last words caused Hawk to lean forward intently. “You found the Black Lodge,” he whispered, incredulous.

“I did. I entered in an attempt to save a loved one. She, thankfully, survived, but I remained trapped for twenty-five years while my doppelganger roamed free in this world, sowing chaos. I managed to escape eventually, and when I awoke from my trance, I was able to defeat him. And then, I was able to utilize various magics taught to me by a benevolent Lodge entity known as Mike to go back in time and rescue Laura Palmer here”--he briefly put a hand on Laura’s shoulder--“the night she was supposed to be murdered by her father, who was possessed by the malevolent entity Bob. We went back to Glastonbury Grove, entered, were led through the Lodge by Mike, and emerged in the exact same spot. After gathering our wits, we came to you.”

The two men stared at him, slack-jawed and entirely confused, for a very long while. Dale continued to finish his pie then moved on to the more substantial chicken pot pie he had also ordered, all the while working on his coffee, which Shelly refilled two more times during her rounds.

After a minimum of ten minutes had passed, he added, “I can very confidently assure you that I was not part of another CIA project to dose people with psychoactive drugs and study their effects.”

Laura picked at her scrambled eggs. “You forgot Judy,” she muttered.

“I think it best to let our friends here sit with what information I have provided them for a bit longer. It may take some time for them to remember the unofficial version.”

Hawk was the first to speak. “Some FBI agent came here a couple months ago and grilled us on everything we knew about Laura’s disappearance and the death of a major in the US Army,” he said. “I remember now--she asked about you.”

Dale leaned forward intently. “Did you remember anything?”

“Nothing really. The newspaper from that time said you were here for a brief period after Ronnette Polaski came back. That’s about all I can recall, too.”

“Harry?” Dale prompted, brows furrowed. “Does any of this ring a bell?”

He shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry, I--I still don’t remember you.”

Cassidy had joked once that with all the chemotherapy and radiation and miscellaneous drugs they had pumped into him it was amazing that he remembered how to put his pants on in the morning. She may not have been that far off from the truth, if Hawk as a then-deputy knew something that he should have known as a then-sheriff.

“Do you have anything to do with that all-grey guy who appeared recently?” he tried.

Dale’s fork stopped midway to his mouth. His eyes became fierce in concern. “A Woodsman was here?”

“You think he worked for one of the local logging companies?”

“No. I believe that he is an entity of the Black Lodge. We need to return to the station and come up with a plan of attack. This is an extremely dangerous individual who  _ must _ be apprehended immediately.” Cooper scooped up one last bite then reached into his pocket. Then the other one. Then his coat pockets, inside and outside. Then, he said, “I’m afraid that I currently do not possess even a single penny.”

_ How convenient _ , Harry thought.

Hawk reluctantly paid their tab, then readily volunteered to drive.

*

Dale was allowed the conference room to make his phone call while Hawk, Harry, and Laura took a seat in the sheriff’s office. Just as Harry sat down, his phone rang, and he was back up again and moving towards the corner, oxygen tank wheeling behind him.

“Hey, Kit,” he said.

“ _ Hi Mr. Truman! I hope I’m not calling at a bad time. _ ”

“No, you’re fine.”

“ _ Great. For some reason I forgot to write down when your return flight is; it’s Saturday, right? _ ”

“Yeah, I’ll be back on Saturday. I’m supposed to land around three.”

“ _ Okay, I’m making a note of that right now. I’ll be on shift at that time so Cass is coming to pick you up _ .”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Kit.”

“ _ Take care, Mr. Truman. Bye now _ .”

“Bye.”

Dale had clearly ended his call as well, as he was standing in the doorway, again with that wounded expression. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I, uh, moved to Los Angeles,” he explained, though he didn’t quite understand why he felt the need to.

He appeared rather taken aback by that.

“Cancer treatment,” Hawk said from where he was reclined behind his desk. Harry shot him a look that he met evenly.

“Oh, Harry…” Dale breathed, with a sadness that made him a bit uncomfortable. “I am deeply sorry that such misfortune befell you. And I am deeply glad that you survived.”

With the medical bills he’d racked up and the continuing cost of assisted living, a large part of him wished he hadn’t. “Uh, thanks.” He wasn’t sure what else to say.

“I just got off the phone with my supervisor,” Dale continued. A welcome change of subject. “He will be here within the next few days with a dossier that will hopefully jog our memories and help me fill in the gaps on what I’ve missed. By the way, where was Norma?”

The silence told him all he needed to know. He bowed his head. “How’s Big Ed holding up?”

“‘Bout as well as you’d expect,” Hawk told him.

“I sincerely hope that the monks of Tibet are right about reincarnation,” Dale said softly. “It just might make the pain of losing those we love a little more bearable.”

Hawk nodded, lips pursed. “Now, what can you tell us about this ‘woodsman’?”

“All that I know, though I am unsure that all of it will make sense. To the best of my knowledge, these Woodsmen emerged in 1956.”

*

An hour and a half later, Dale concluded his long, twisting tale, and everyone in Hawk’s office got up to stretch their legs, use the restroom, and get more coffee and/or food. There were still a lot of donuts on the conference room table. It was amazing that they hadn’t all gotten fatter with how many they’d ate over the course of all those years at the station, all those morning meetings and late nights. It was amazing that there was blood still in their veins, and not just coffee.

Harry returned from the restroom and breathed deep. A fresh pot of coffee was being brewed. It smelled incredible. The weather was nice, so all the windows were open. Sunlight filtered through the glass and a steady breeze kept the building just the right temperature.

The door to the office was halfheartedly closed by Dale, but remained slightly ajar. Harry stopped with a shrug. He didn’t mind standing there for a few minutes, sipping his water, after all that sitting.

“Is he really leaving on Saturday, Hawk?”

That was Dale, and suddenly Harry’s interest was piqued.  _ Why _ was this man so concerned with him? Had they really gotten to know each other that well when he’d come down to investigate Laura Palmer’s kidnapping?

Hawk must have said something, because Dale replied, “I find myself much more upset about this than I otherwise would have guessed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m worried. I’m worried that he’ll never remember me and this will be the last time I ever see him.” There was a pause. Dale sounded so miserable, and Harry’s heart went out to him.

Finally, he said, “How did you remember me, Hawk? I was told that only Gordon Cole would remember the unofficial version.”

“Margaret Lanterman helped. She directed me to Glastonbury Grove about a year ago. My memory of what I saw and did there is… foggy… but the second Lucy told me a Richard was here, I knew what to do.”

Silence. As Harry heard footsteps he moved back a little, then walked forward slowly, to make it seem like he hadn’t been eavesdropping. Dale opened the door and looked at him with tight eyes.

“Sorry if there was any information overload,” he said, addressing Harry, Bobby, Andy, and Lucy. “I promise, I’m almost done talking.”

At this point, he didn’t know if that was actually possible.

*

He sat in the cold Thursday morning, wrapped up in longjohns, canvas pants, shirt, flannel, jacket, and blanket, two layers of socks, and boots. And, of course, his oxygen tank. His cross to bear. He wished it was smaller, more discreet. But that would also mean that he would run out of oxygen sooner, need to replace the tanks more often, shell out more money more often, rack up more medical debt that his Social Security checks and Medicare just didn’t cover. He was thankful that he didn’t have any children; his cancer treatment and assisted living debts would be their only inheritance. No, his debt would die with him.

Hawk sat in the rocking chair next to him. They watched the birds and sipped their respective coffee and green tea together. To their delight, a flock of five or so Evening Grosbeaks lighted upon the rim of the house-shaped feeder. Their chubby beaks sifted through the mix of seeds to pluck up and devour their favorites.

“Man, I’d missed these,” Harry said. “In LA, there was a little flock of them way up in the mountains, apparently. The instant somebody spotted them every retired person in a fifty mile radius would rush up the icy mountain roads to try their luck.”

That drew a chuckle out of his best friend. “Guess we’re pretty lucky up here, then.”

“Guess we are,” he agreed. 

A Canada Jay joined the finches, but was quickly crowded out and fluttered away with an angry series of chirps.

“I wish I could understand what in the hell that guy was talking about,” he continued.

“You and me both.”

Hawk had led Dale and Laura to what used to be Margaret Lanterman’s house on Tuesday. Since then Hawk had kept busy trying to track down the so-called Woodsman. Dale claimed that he was doing his own research, and hadn’t appeared at the station yet with any findings. With any luck, he was just another one of those UFO-chasing nuts who had had a bit too many psychedelics. But that didn’t do much to explain how he’d managed to find a woman who had been missing for twenty-six years. That was another task on Hawk’s itinerary, though she hadn’t been very forthcoming with information during questioning thus far, almost as if she herself didn’t remember what happened. Andy had suggested that the trauma of what she had been through could have caused memory problems, and maybe they should get a psychiatrist-- _ not _ Jacoby--to come in and talk with her.

“So… Harry,” Hawk said.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got some vacation time stacked up. Never been to Los Angeles, but I’m thinking about it.” He sighed and stroked his chin. “We’re getting old, Harry. We’re droppin’ like flies, practically. I’d prefer it if this wasn’t the last time we saw each other.”

He felt a layer of sadness descend upon the two of them. “I’d prefer it too, Hawk. Gotta warn you, though; LA’s a  _ whooooole _ different kind of strange.” To lighten the mood a little, he added, “People  _ willingly _ choose to eat kale, all the time.”

He gave him a look of exaggerated disbelief, then chuckled again. “Diane and I have taken different trips together, of course, but we’ve purposely avoided LA. Might be time I faced my fears.”

“Well, I’d be more than grateful for your company. Thanks, Hawk.”

“For what?”

“Using your vacation time to come spend time with my sorry ass.”

Hawk shook his head. “Don’t start thinking that way. Don’t you dare, Harry Truman. For me, at least.”

“Alright. For you.”

*

His phone buzzed twice while he was packing his bags and preparing to leave. The first message was from Kit:  _ Safe travels, Mr. Truman! _ He smiled to himself and typed a quick thank you response. The second was from Cassidy:  _ I’ll be at the airport by 2:45. Call me when you land and I’ll meet you in baggage claim. _

He sent her “ _ Affirmative. Thanks, Cass _ ” and set the last of his things in his suitcase, then stripped the bedding and piled it on top of the mattress for Hawk. Then he stopped and looked to the window. No weird owls outside this time, thankfully. Just the morning sun and Douglas firs. All of the sudden he felt sluggish, reluctant. He didn’t want to leave this place and go back to the assisted care facility to watch EMT’s come in three times a day to wheel someone out and people mindlessly binged game shows on TV and everyone and everything around him was preoccupied with death and dying.

He didn’t want to leave his friends. Hell, he’d even live with Doris if it meant staying in Twin Peaks. She was still with other family, trying to cope with her grief.

He didn’t want to leave the mysterious and eccentric Dale Bartholemew Cooper, FBI, out of pity for the man and guilt that he could not for the life of him remember who he was. He wanted to so badly it made his head hurt. Who could forget a man  _ that  _ obsessed with pie and coffee, who spoke so eloquently and quickly and looked like Cary Grant?

Hawk rapped his knuckles softly on the open door. “We should probably get goin’,” he said.

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

They talked about the grocery store murder case on the car ride to Spokane. The autopsy on the young man had concluded that his skull had been crushed. The blood vessels in his brain had burst, and he’d died. It had absolutely baffled the coroner, who had been shown the CCTV footage. There was no way a single human hand could have crushed an adult man’s skull.

“They’re thinking they’re just gonna write ‘cerebral hemorrhage’ on the death certificate. Hell of a lot easier to explain to the parents, at least,” Hawk noted.

His eyes grew wide, and his head snapped to the side to look at his friend. “W-what?”

Hawk glanced over at him a few times while trying to keep an eye on the road, brows furrowing. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“That’s what they said Frank died from,” he managed, voice hoarse.

“You think there’s a connection?”

“God, I hope not. The last thing this town needs is some supernatural-sounding serial killer running around terrorizing everyone. We’ve got enough problems with run of the mill druggies.” He took a deep breath and tried to stop himself from shaking.

“Don’t worry,” Hawk told him. “We’ll nab this guy before you know it. I doubt Frank’s passing had anything to do with this, but regardless, I’ll call you with updates.” He reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

He nodded, but a tightening knot in his gut told him that ‘worried’ was exactly what he should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lord huron has a lot of good songs that apply to twin peaks so they're perfect to listen to while i'm writing this


	4. The Home

Cassidy gave him a two-fingered salute off her brow as he moved past security and made it to the baggage claim at the Burbank airport--LAX was too crowded and large and it was an absolute bitch to maneuver around in--and she thankfully had just gotten his bag without him having to swallow his pride and ask her to lift it for him.

“I’m sorry to hear about your brother,” she said over the general rumblings.

“Thanks.”  _ Me, too _ . He was so tired from the full day’s travel that he was half-tempted to go back to Twin Peaks and double check that he hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

“Was the service nice?” she wondered.

“Yeah, yeah, it was. Military guys came out, gave him the twenty-one gun salute, all that. It was nice.”

“That’s good. You want to grab some takeout on the way back? I’m picking up lunch for Kit, anyways.”

“You might be able to twist my arm.” There was a small kitchen in his apartment at the senior facility, but he didn’t feel like cooking and he  _ certainly _ didn’t feel like grocery shopping.

She chuckled. “Good. She asked for that vegan place off Main for, like, the fifth week in a row. I’m on a first-name basis with the cashier.”

They reached her and Kit’s car, a large, old, forest green Ford that was a monster compared to all the little sedans zipping in and out of traffic. She settled Harry’s bag in the back seat and clambered up into the driver’s side.

“I met the  _ weirdest _ guy while I was up there,” he told her while they eased onto the highway.

“Normal definition of weird or California definition?”

“He might’ve even surpassed California-grade weird.”

“Dear god.”

He liked Cassidy. She was easy to talk to and didn’t treat him like he was completely senile and incapable of understanding anything the way some of the home’s staff and volunteers did. She had restored her own Harley to thunder down the streets in and had introduced him to some local rock’n’roll acts that he ended up liking--although nothing beat the classics--and she worked hard at her studies. Kit had made mention of her applying to med school with plans to be a medical examiner and he had immediately drafted a letter of recommendation on her behalf, and one for Kit, who would be finishing up her dissertation in medical anthropology in a few months.

“Yeah, he fainted as soon as he saw me and he kept claiming we were friends,” he said, jumping back to his other train of thought. “I met the guy once, apparently, twenty-six years ago, when he worked for the FBI and had come up for a day or two to investigate these missing girls, but he acted like we’d known each other for a long time, like we were close or somethin’. I don’t know, it was just…  _ odd _ . And the weirdest part was that he had  _ brought back _ with him the girl who’d gone missing.”

She took her eyes off the road briefly to give him an incredulous look.

“Right? The whole thing--for me, ‘weird’ doesn’t quite cover it.”

“Did he kidnap her?”

“They both said he didn’t. He started talking about all this spiritual stuff, and something about the Manhattan Project, people living above a convenience store. None of it made any sense to me. I couldn’t tell if Hawk--you remember me telling you about Hawk?--if he understood it. I think maybe he got at least half of it.” He shrugged, feeling helpless to explain what the hell the past couple days had been.

He waited in the car while Cassidy ran in and grabbed their grub. Tofu was a very, very slowly acquired taste for a dedicated carnivore from rural Washington, but the way this restaurant prepared their fake versions of meat was pretty passable, plus it was a decent way to get some more veggies in him. He sent a quick text to Hawk letting him know that he’d landed and everything. He was tempted to ask about how the investigation was going but knew not to. He’d only been allowed to sit in that day because they all felt bad for him for being a cancer patient and having a dead brother. That was it. He wasn’t a sheriff anymore, he didn’t have a seat at that table anymore.

Hawk replied less than a minute later with, “ _ Good. There’s been another murder. Same type of guy. Cooper says ‘Hello’ _ .”

Of course Cooper said hello. The man’s feelings seemed too genuine to be some sort of ploy to get Harry on his side in case he did, actually, commit a crime, or something like that. The fact that there had been two murders around the exact same time he showed up in Twin Peaks was certainly suspicious. It was hard to tell, but the CCTV footage showed a man who didn’t look like Dale Cooper. But what if he and this so-called ‘Woodsman’ were working together? How plausible--how  _ believable _ \--was it that this was a man spawned from a nuclear test in New Mexico, who now lived above a convenience store and could revive dead spirits?

His head was starting to hurt, more than that confused, dull sensation he’d been having during the funeral trip. Like when it had just hit noon or so and the symptoms of his hangover were starting to ebb.

A surprised cry pulled his attention to the right. A homeless man stumbled back from a pair of cops, one of which had presumably pushed him. Both had their right hands on their holstered guns. They were talking to the man, reminding him not to approach a police officer “like that” and asking why he was on the streets. The homeless man was clearly distressed, shaking his head and arms and shouting curses.

Cassidy exited the restaurant, saw the situation, and threw a hand up in exasperation. “Come on, leave him alone!” she protested.

“Stay out of this, honey,” one of the cops replied evenly.

“I’m not your fuckin’ honey, pal,” she spat. To the homeless man, she said, “There’s a good shelter about a mile away on the left. They don’t try to convert you and they let you keep your stuff.” Then she reached into her pocket and handed him some money.

The man nodded. “God bless you, miss.”

“Poor guy,” Harry said.

Closing the driver’s side door, Cassidy grumbled, “Fucking cops, man,” and they were on their merry way.

“Aw, come on now.”

“Kit deals with them a lot when residents with Alzheimer’s wander off. She tells me about it--they’re a bunch of trigger-happy boneheads looking for any excuse to punch down.” She shook her head sadly. “They have no idea how to deal with the sick or the different. Trust me, Mr. Truman, you’re the only decent lawman in a hundred mile radius. Probably even two hundred.”

Los Angeles was, most days, a vastly different place than the one that was depicted in the movies. The skies were only that true blue on the beach; the further one went inland the more prominent the sickly beige haze in the sky became. It was only after a rainstorm--or what passed for one around here, which was to say a normal rainy day for Washington--or during the fall when the winds were absolutely howling like they were having a hurricane that the haze cleared out and the sky was beautiful all around. The rare times during the winter when the sky clouded over were the ones that made Harry the most homesick. At least when it was pushing one hundred and fifteen degrees outside he could focus on staying cool indoors. But when the weather was the same in Los Angeles as it was back home, it was almost like being in Twin Peaks again, so close he could almost reach out and touch the Douglas firs, and that was the saddest thing of all.

The old folks home that the employees had to keep insisting was actually a  _ senior residential community _ was three stories tall, with Spanish-style architecture and lots of common areas for people to gather and socialize in. Or just sit and watch game shows all day, as some people seemed to do. Which was a terrifying way to live, in Harry’s opinion.

It was a little after four in the afternoon; Kit had just clocked in and was settling in at the front desk when he and Cassidy, who triumphantly lifted the to-go bag to show her, entered.

“Glad to have you back, Mr. Truman!” she chirped, adjusting her glasses and smiling up at him. It was amazing to him that she didn’t violate the employee dress code with her style. Most of her wavy, chin-length hair was dyed a very orangey ginger, with a large chunk of the right side hear her face dyed electric blue. She dressed exactly like Harry saw career academics dress when he’d gone to college many decades ago, very “Boho chic,” most of it vintage. Cassidy dressed like James Dean, another reason they probably fit so well together.

Kit slid a clipboard forward. “Mind signing in for me?”

“Sure thing,” he muttered. He knew it was company policy and for that reason wasn’t going to gripe about it to her. But it was one of the many little details that felt degrading. When employees radioed one another about different residents they used room numbers instead of names. They all talked in a syrupy-sweet tone regardless of how anyone responded to them. 

When Hawk came to visit, he wasn’t going to let him in the home. He didn’t want him to see this. If anyone from his former life witnessed him here, he would never recover from the shame of it.

Kit gratefully accepted the food from her girlfriend and blew her a kiss as they couldn’t quite reach across the desk… and they’d gotten in trouble for it before. There was a company policy about PDA, too.

“Want to play a round?” Cassidy offered.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he replied. “I’m beat.”

“I feel ya. I’ll probably be here around noonish.” She clapped him on his upper arm, then turned to Kit. “Bye, darlin’.”

“Bye, Cass.”

“How late do they have you working tonight?” he asked Kit.

“Midnight,” she admitted begrudgingly.

He whistled lowly.

“At least once the front desk is closed I can study,” she replied, shrugging. Then, in a brighter tone, she added, “I’m almost done with the first draft of my thesis!”

It would be on the period of adjustment residents faced when they first came to senior living facilities. Harry, despite normally being a very private person, had agreed to be interviewed once a week for six months to help her out. The paper wasn’t going to be a national bestseller--he was basically just opening himself up to a bunch of academics who would be so focused on scrutinizing Kit’s methods and conclusions that they wouldn’t care about what each individual participant had to say.

“When do I get to read it?”

“You’ll be the first one. I can email you your section now, if you’d like, so you can tell me if there’s any changes you want me to make or if you changed your mind and want to go by a pseudonym.”

“Thanks, Kit. I’m gonna head on over to my room, now.”

“Alrighty. Call if you need anything.”

“Will do.” He supposed that at least the little things, like Kit’s genuine smile and warmth and Cassidy’s ruthless approach to chess, made life here a little more bearable.

*

He had fallen asleep watching TV and before he knew it, he was waking up to darkness and a clock that read  11:30 P.M.  He took a deep breath and groaned, stretching out his stiff limbs and yawning. His first thought was that Kit would be off in a half hour. Hopefully there wouldn’t be too many drunk morons on the road yet; it was still two hours before the bars closed, but he knew from experience that midnight was still prime time for DUI’s.

He put his hands in the pockets of his jacket to warm them and found the Great Northern key in the right one. It glinted in the moonlight when he held it up, still bright silver and scratch-free as if it wasn’t almost thirty years old. Sighing, he lurched to his feet and made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

_ “But I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.” _

With a gasp, he felt his knees give way. He tried to brace himself against the countertop but he was going down whether he liked it or not. His heart was hammering in his chest and he felt like he was going to be sick as he slid against the opposite wall and onto the floor. It was as if there were a thousand pound weight on his chest, only letting him take in the barest amount of oxygen. Oh, God, this wasn’t good.

He desperately fumbled with shaking hands--God, they were so badly shaking it was unbelievable--and despite his blurring vision he was able to locate the number for the front desk and press the ‘dial’ button.

Everything around him was spinning so fast that he couldn’t tell what exactly was said or if Kit was done rattling off the standard greeting. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to suck in some more air so he could stammer out, “K-kit, please-- h-help.”

“Mr. Truman? Mr. Truman, what’s going on?”

“Please help,” he repeated, running a hand down his face. He was starting to break out in a cold sweat and he was trembling all over, sick to his stomach.

“Mr. Truman, is there any numbness on the left side of your body?” she asked, voice steady despite her obvious concern. It grounded him.

He paused for a second. “N-n-no.”

“I’m going to be right over, okay? I have a skeleton key.”

Kit arrived quickly despite his unit being in the back of the complex; she must have run. The door opened and she called for him again. The next moment, she was kneeling next to him while an attendant nurse--Rita, if he remembered correctly--began to take his vitals.

“No signs of a stroke or heart attack,” the nurse concluded. “Did you miss a dose of your medicines?”

He shook his head. The movement was too much, and he was scrambling for the toilet so he could be sick. He let out a pathetic sob and leaned back against the wall again when he was done, accepting the damp cloth Rita handed to him to wipe his face and mouth. Nothing made him feel better; he couldn’t stop shaking and he breathe properly or see clearly and--

Kit put her hands on his shoulders, grounding him. “Mr. Truman, I think you’re having a panic attack,” she said gently. “Try to take a deep breath, okay?”

Damn him, he tried, but it didn’t work. She kept encouraging him to try again, voice soft and soothing. Eventually, after whoever knew how long, he was able to take one deep, stuttering breath that actually made him feel like he was getting air into his lungs. Then another, then more hyperventilating, then another.

“Good, good,” Kit murmured.

A wave of exhaustion like he’d never felt before swept through him, and he felt as if he were going to pass out. His eyes slid closed and he pressed closer to the wall. “Thank you,” he panted.

She gave him a small smile. “Can I ask what triggered this?”

It was hard to swallow with how bone dry his mouth was. “I need to talk to you,” he told her, speech slurring a little.

She nodded. Rita remained, and he looked up at her imploringly. She and Kit glanced at one another, and Kit nodded again.

“Alright, but radio me if the second anything happens,” she said.

“Will do. Mr. Truman, do you want us to help you move to the couch? It’ll probably be more comfortable than the floor.”

“Yeah… yeah, okay.”

With Kit and Rita on either side of him, he was able to limp slowly over to the couch and sit down without collapsing. His stomach was thankfully done doing flip-flops, but the rest of him would take a while to recover. He carded his fingers through his sweaty hair and waited until Rita left with the door still open before he started trying to talk through the jumbled mess of his thoughts.

“There was a guy in Twin Peaks,” he began. “And he kept claiming he knew me, but I didn’t remember him at all. But I remember now, I remember everything. His name’s Dale Cooper, he was missing for twenty-five years, he was--”

His voice was caught suddenly by a lump in his throat. He took a deep, shuddering breath, but the words were still a struggle. “I looked for him for twenty years. This was his room key.”

Kit took the offered item delicately, holding it up in the light. Then she looked back at him. “I remember him, too. You talked about him all the time. So… he came back, then?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. His voice lightened, half disbelieving, half overjoyed. “He came back.”

Silence blanketed the room for a long, long moment. She didn’t try to press him, bless her heart, just waited patiently for him to feel ready to speak again.

When he did, it was with certainty. He turned to meet her stare. “Kit, I can’t stay here. I gotta go back to Twin Peaks.”

Understanding gleamed in her eyes. She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You do,” she agreed. When he tried to stand up, she forced him to settle back down and added, “In the  _ morning _ .”

After a beat, he nodded. “In the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, i wasn't going to enact some "the return" level torment where they'd only remember and be reunited for two seconds.  
> sorry for the delay! i went on a nice, socially-distanced birdwatching trip, then got behind on my homework and had to work overtime to catch up. now i should be updating weekly again, on mondays :)

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what in the gotdamn was going on most of the time during twin peaks the return despite liking it very much but i needed this because i was rewatching twin peaks and the gay subtext/tension between harry and cooper was about to kill me on the spot.


End file.
